


Fraught With Misery

by Redlance



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redlance/pseuds/Redlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Beca can't sit on the left side of her own couch anymore and her bed feels like it's too big, and she can't breathe whenever she passes the café at the end of the street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fraught With Misery

**Author's Note:**

> _“That which promised happiness when we were one in heart, is fraught with misery now that we are two.”_ \- Charles Dickens, 'A Christmas Carol'.

* * *

There are things Beca's good at, she knows that. It might have taken her a while to learn it, but after being told certain things over and over again, the lesson had truly cemented itself in her brain.

 

She's good at mixing.

 

She's good at leading.

 

She's good at setting off bear traps, though that one she could have done without learning.

 

She can sing, and sort of dance when she puts her mind to it.

 

She can win championships, at home **and** internationally.

 

She's not great at making friends, but she's good at keeping them close once she does, even if she pretends she isn't.

 

She does a bang-up job of making them smile, as well as pissing them off, but they all do that to each other and so she thinks that balances everything back out.

 

She's good at making Chloe smile. And laugh. She's good at making Chloe's eyes sparkle like the ocean at midday.

 

She's good, Chloe tells her, at making people fall for her without even trying.

 

“ _There's just something about you, Becs. Makes it easy. And I’m not... I’m not blaming you. I’m not telling you this because I expect anything from you. It's just that... this is it. This is my last chance to tell you before you go, and maybe I shouldn't be doing this, but if I don't I think it might eat me alive. I just need you to know that-” Beca stops her there._

 

Chloe tells her she's good at kissing, too.

 

The distance sucks. It's hard and it hurts, but they have cell phone plans and video chat, and the promise of Christmas together and that keeps them sane. Keeps them together until they can actually be **together**. Finally figure out what this thing between them really is, face to face, and with an optional hands-on approach that becomes mandatory the second Chloe steps over the threshold and into Beca's apartment. Beca's arms. Beca's bed.

 

And Beca thinks, in between laboured breaths and sips of water, that maybe they've said all they need to without really talking about it.

 

“ _Do you have any idea,” the metallic clink of a belt buckle being unfastened fills the space between the words and the kiss that Chloe presses to her lips as her fingers blindly pull at the leather, “how long I've wanted this?” She tosses it aside and it hits the leg of Beca's desk with a 'thwack'. Hands tug her shirt free from her pants and work the buttons loose. Beca tips her head back, eyes dark, chest tight, and lets Chloe peel her shirt and tank off without pause. “How long I've wanted **you**.” She lets Chloe push her down onto the double bed and doesn't say a word because yes, Beca knows. She knows, because she thinks she might have wanted this, wanted Chloe, just as long._

 

She's good at making breakfast, or at least picking it up from the cosy little café down the street that's drenched in Christmas decorations and has been since the beginning of November. She's also pretty good at juggling take-out containers and styrofoam coffee cups back to her apartment, where she practices waking sleeping redheads by pressing butterfly kisses to bare shoulders.

 

Over the course of the next few months, Beca gets pretty good at that too.

 

They spend Christmas Day in bed, having both phoned their families ahead of time to alert them of the fact that they won't be home for the holidays. Which isn't entirely true, Beca thinks. They're just at a different home this year. They exchange the gifts they'd been planning on sending out in the mail before deciding to hold onto them and Beca orders take out from the Chinese place downtown. They eat and watch 'Home Alone 2' on Netflix because it's Chloe's favourite.

 

It's Beca's perfect day.

 

After that they visit whenever they can. Chloe talks about moving out there to be closer. Beca's new job is amazing, she loves it, loves the city, loves where she lives.

 

She loves **Chloe**.

 

And when she truly realises how much, **that's** when she stops being good at stuff.

 

Except running.

 

Because that?

 

That's something **all** Mitchell's are good at.

 

* * *

 

Her dad, ironically enough, had been a track star in high school.

 

Guess that came in handy for him.

 

* * *

 

“ _I don't understand.”_

 

“ _There's nothing more to understand. I'm just- I can't do this.”_

 

“ _I don't understand_ _ **any**_ _of this, Beca!” The video quality is for shit, probably because of the_ _s_ _torm currently raging outside of Beca's apartment, but she can still see the tears on Chloe's face. They still run her through like icicles, turning every impact wound into a cold spot that spreads and ripples out to turn her chest into a frozen lake. Where everything is still alive beneath the surface, but nothing can break through. “Why are you doing this? I thought we-”_

 

“ _I'm sorry, Chloe.”_ _Her voice is empty_ _, dull,_ _and_ _her blue eyes_ _are_ _a different shade of steel today. Tomorrow. For the foreseeable future. “_ _I'm_ _ **sorry**_ _.”_ _She hits the apology_ _hard, harsh, biting her way through it before she forgoes signing out and just s_ _huts down her laptop, pull_ _ing_ _the cord out of the wall._ _She turns her phone off and_ _lies down, face pressed into the pillow._

 

_W_ _ith an angry cry, she bolts upright and rips it away from the mattress, throwing it across the room before curling up in the middle of the bed._

 

_Her pillow still smells like Chloe._

 

* * *

 

Chloe texts. She calls. Not a lot, but enough. Beca's heart splinters anew every time she sees the redhead's name.

 

So, she deletes Chloe's number from her phone, but it stays stored inside her memory.

 

She deletes her Facebook and her personal twitter.

 

She only ever opened them because of Chloe anyway.

 

* * *

 

_424-555-2322_

 

_Hey this is my new number. Can you not give it to anyone else? Thanks. Beca._

 

* * *

 

Jesse calls her almost the minute she sends the message and Beca's so shocked to hear her phone ringing that she nearly doesn't answer.

 

“Beca, what the hell?”

 

“Nice to speak to you too, dude.” There's a long sigh on the other end and then the sound of a door being quietly closed. “Aubrey there?”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes, quiet and heavy, and she's sure she can hear his brain working as she sits down on the arm of her couch. All the lights are off in her apartment and the gloom is broken only by the clock on the stove, its digital, pale blue glow hurting her eyes. “Becs.”

 

“I know,” she cuts in before he can say anything else, closing her eyes against the glare. “I know, okay.”

 

“ **Do** you?” She's only heard him get angry on a handful of occasions. She isn't sure what else she'd been expecting. “Where the hell have you been? I must have called you a hundred times.”

 

“And left a hundred different voice mails and sent twice as many texts.” Her tone is biting and annoyed, like she's been through this already. Only she hasn't, and this is the first time she's spoken to anyone outside of her job in over a week.

 

“Well, forgive me for worrying.” He always sounds so strange when he's angry, so much less like the Jesse she knows. It's both unsettling and comforting to hear how ill a fit that persona is for him. “Jesus, Beca. Do you have any idea how many times I almost booked a flight out?” The sharp claws of guilt rip remorse down from her throat to her abdomen and she feels it like a line of freezing fire.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“You just disappeared.” And his voice is so close to cracking on the last word, she hears it, **feels** it. “No one could reach you.” She swallows past the lump in her throat and presses the thumb of her free hand too hard against her eye.

 

“I didn't want anyone to,” she admits in a whisper, inhaling deeply through her nose and trying to find a way to not remember **everything** in that moment. Because it's too much, and she knows she can't take the weight of it. “I needed to...” but she feels a sob try to crawl its way free and has to pause, has to bite down hard on her lip to stop it from escaping, “just like, not exist for a while.” She hears him breathing on the other end of the line, absorbing and digesting the information.

 

“Okay.” And he accepts it, just like that, because he's Jesse and that's what he does. “Bec, what happened?” The breath she'd been holding explodes from her at the question and the sob slips out, riding its coattails.

 

“I really can't talk about it right now,” she says in a rush, voice high and desperate, “I just wanted you to know I’m okay.” Her eyes are still closed but wetness trickles along her cheeks in spite of that, proving herself as the liar she is.

 

Because the Mitchell's are good at lying too.

 

* * *

 

“ _I cannot keep having this same fight!!”_

 

“ _Keep your voice down! Beca is sleeping.”_

 

“ _Oh, suddenly you're **so** concerned with waking her. You weren't last night. You woke her, the dog next door and the whole god damn neighbourhood!”_

 

“ _For the love of god, I can't-”_

 

“ _Then don't! Go! It's **obvious** you don't give a shit anymore, so hey. Neither do I! Leave!”_

 

Sometimes, late at night, when she's drifting between the lands of wakefulness and sleep, Beca can still hear the booming whispers of an angry household. Muffled through the floor of her bedroom, but never enough. She remembers every argument, every thrown piece of dishware and the exact resonance with which the front door would slam. She remembers the sound of her mom crying. She remembers how frightened and fearful she was.

 

It's still all there, inside of her. And she hates that she remembers all of it. Hates that her parents put her through that, put each other through that.

 

You're not supposed to hurt the people you love. Beca couldn't understand that then.

 

* * *

 

She can't understand it now.

 

* * *

 

_Jesse_

_can I call?_

 

She says yes because she isn't busy. Because she's sitting on the floor in front of her couch watching 'Friends' reruns and eating ice cream right out of the tub.

 

It's just another Friday night for her.

 

“Hello.” She cringes at the way her voice sounds, weak and flat.

 

“Hey.” It's one word but he's so familiar and he sounds so close that Beca feels it like a balm applied to her entire being. “How are you?” The question is preceded by an awkward pause and Beca's spoon stops halfway to her mouth.

 

“Really? Small talk?” He huffs a laugh and she can practically hear him rubbing his forehead. “What do you want, Jesse?

 

“I want to know how you **are**.” And it's fair, because she's danced around the question every time he's asked since she first gave him her number. “I want to know that you're okay. I want,” he cuts himself off and Beca licks her spoon clean before putting the lid back on the tub and resting the spoon on top. “I want to hear what happened. From you.” The implication is there, lying still and ready to strike beneath the words and when it does, Beca feels the venom slip into her veins like thin streams of fire.

 

“You... did you talk to her?” She doesn't know if she's dreading the answer or not.

 

“She just left.” It's no clearer when it arrives. “Beca, she...” everything inside of her is tense and tight, and the hand not holding her phone is clenched into a fist against the carpet, “she's really messed up.” She closes her eyes and pretends not to feel the tear riding the curve of her cheek.

 

“She'll be fine.” Her coldness surprises even herself and Jesse's sigh is one of frustration.

 

“You need to help me understand. Because the person that just spent the last three hours in my apartment crying into Aubrey's cashmere cardigan is **not** Chloe. Now not only do I have an impending dry cleaner's bill but I also have a super pissed off girlfriend who I have to **lie** to, because if she finds out I have your new number and didn't tell her, she'll fillet me like a chicken. So, I’m sorry that you're hurting and I’m sorry that this happened, but I need to know **why**.” He stops to take a breath and in that moment Beca feels the weight of everything press against her ribs. “Because I don't get it. I really don't. I thought you guys were happy.” Feels it crack her sternum and break open her chest. “Please. Talk to me.”

 

And Beca doesn't know how to do this. That's part of her problem. She can only feel so much without imploding, can only endure so much of her brain's chatter before she shuts down and she can't, **can't** , explain any of it. It's like a new song and she doesn't know the words.

 

“I don't...” her laugh is breathy and desperate, “I don't know how, dude.” So full of disdain that it leaks into her voice.

 

“Just,” she can picture him waving his hand as he searches for just the right thing to say, so that she won't have to try as hard, “say words. Anything.” And Beca opens her eyes and stares straight ahead at the blank T.V. screen.

 

And she can almost feel Chloe behind her, legs on either side of Beca's shoulders, hands threading dark hair into a French plait. She feels the warmth of the memory swell, and burst. And she sobs.

 

“I'm broken, Jess.”

 

* * *

 

“ _What's the deal with your parents?” Jesse asks her out of the blue, standing on the opposite side of the shelf they're stacking CDs onto. It's the R &B section and her hand stills against the spine of Mary J. Blige's 'Growing Pains' for a few seconds, stare fixed on nothing, before she slides it into place and reaches for another. _

 

“ _They agreed to keep a roof over my head for eighteen years and I had to promise I'd at least try not to burn it down?”_

 

“ _No,” Jesse chuckles, his mouth stretched into a wide smile, “I mean like are they still together? Your dad's a professor here, right? Is your mom a teacher too?” She's gotten used to his questions by now – dating is good for something, she guesses – and she's kind of purposefully avoided talking about her family so it was bound to come up, but they still take her off guard. The idea of having to answer them and talk about stuff she doesn't really enjoy talking about._

 

_And it's dumb, she thinks, because millions of people go through the exact same thing without it adversely affecting them, but she can't even think about it without getting twitchy._

 

“ _Um,” she furrows her brow and turns away from him, pretending to look through the basket for a specific album so that she doesn't have to look him in the eye, “no. She's not. And they haven't,” she clears her throat with a shake of her head, “they're not together anymore. Haven't been for a while.”_

 

“ _Oh.” She loses herself in the rhythmic click of plastic jewel cases being slotted into place. “Did they divorce when you were pretty young?” Beca bites the inside of her cheek and inhales through her nose. Like a message being relayed via a tin can and a piece of string, she can hear her mother yelling about how she's '_ old enough to know the truth _'._

 

“ _No. I mean, not really. I don't know.” Tension builds with every word she adds, until her father's voice reminds her that '_ I only pray she doesn't end up anything like **you** _ **'** and the cord being pulled taut inside of her finally snaps. “Can we not talk about this? Jesus, why do you ask so many god damn questions?” She spits, eyes on fire and face like thunder, and she sees his face fall in the instant before she walks away. _

 

* * *

 

She'd told him, eventually. She'd tried to play it off as no big deal, as though it didn't still creep into her thoughts and manifest its own personal subset of fears. He'd seen through the charade though, called her on it, and then hadn't known what the hell to do when she'd started crying.

 

So, he'd held her close and told her that she was safe. That she was okay and that Beca was nothing like them. That **they** wouldn't ever be anything like them, and after a short time, the crying stopped.

 

The fear had continued to fester.

 

* * *

 

“ _You push away anyone who could possibly care about you. Why is that?”_

 

* * *

 

Jesse might not remember his exact words.

 

But Beca does.

 

It's probably better that way.

 

* * *

 

_They break up because they're not working, not as a couple. They just aren't in that place anymore. The one that's filled with romance and feelings of undying love and affection. She loves him, of course she does, and she knows he loves her too, but they want different things. They need different people._

 

_He tells her that this isn't her fault. That this has as much to do with him as it does her, but that none of that is bad. That they aren't bad, they never were, and that **she** isn't._

 

_She isn't bad, or faulty, or wired wrong._

 

_And when he says it, she believes him._

 

_For a while._

 

* * *

 

 

_To: Jesse Swanson_

_From: Me_

 

_Subject:_

 

_I know it's super weird that I’m emailing you and not just calling you back or texting or something, but I know I’m not going to explain unless I can sit and stare at my words for a while. So, I’m doing it this way._

 

_It's not that I don't love her. It never was. Sometimes I think about when she was here and I just... it kills me. I think about how perfect everything felt and how we fit. How different it was from you (sorry, dude, no offence) and how RIGHT it seemed. Like I'd just woken up from a four year long sleep or something. She'd been in front of me this whole time and I think I knew that I felt something but... you know me. I never expected her to feel anything back._

 

_But then she did. And then everything happened so fast, like we were making up for lost time, and suddenly I was in over my head._

 

_It's because I love her TOO much, you know? And it kills me. It fucking kills me, dude. Because she's the first thing I think about when I wake up, and every night I go to sleep with her face painted on the backs of my eyelids. And she's always smiling, you know? Every night. And it hurts._

 

_Because I won't be the one who ruins that. Who takes everything she is and fucks it up. I CAN'T be that person, Jesse. I've seen what that kind of love can do to people and I won't do that to her._

 

_She'll be okay. She has Aubrey to get her through and she'll be better off with someone who doesn't have all the makings for a disaster._

 

_I'm sorry you're stuck in the middle of this._

 

_Beca_

 

* * *

 

_Jesse_

_you aren't your father, or your mother. And neither is she. Just because you love her, that doesn't mean you're going to end up like them._

 

She knows he's just trying to make her feel better. Trying to fix things.

 

_I won't risk it_

 

But he can't fix Beca.

 

* * *

 

 

The rest of the year falls away like a leaf from a tree in autumn; pretty but ultimately dead. The city goes on bustling around her, but it feels empty. Her job continues demanding her attention and manages to distract her for the most part, but that only ever lasts until she heads back to her apartment for the night.

 

Because Beca can't sit on the left side of her own couch anymore and her bed feels like it's too big, and she can't breathe whenever she passes the café at the end of the street. She holds her breath every time she has to, like she's eight-years-old again, riding in the back of her parent's car as they barrel through a tunnel and she tests herself to see if she can make it out through the other side before her lungs give out.

 

She knows she's lucky. She knows exactly how lucky she is to be noticed and picked up in a world that is literally fit to burst with people just like her. She really isn't anything special, just a slightly bigger fish in a slightly bigger pond, and she has so much to be thankful for.

 

And it would be easier to **be** thankful, she thinks, if she weren't missing something vital. If the days would just pass by quietly and not surround her with reminders of what she's missing. They're everywhere, though. Beca can't escape them. Even before Chloe had visited that Christmas, she'd seeped into Beca's life. Already lined the walls and counter tops of her apartment. Now, after the picture frames have been taken down and the sweater she'd left behind after her last visit has been shoved into the back corner of her closet, there's still evidence of her everywhere.

 

Chloe's laughter still rings through the hallway and her smell won't come out of Beca's sheets. There's a folder on her phone full of photographs she can't delete and Beca can't look at anything in the apartment without thinking about red hair and blue eyes.

 

Her life is lacking something integral to who she is and it's like all the colours in her world have suddenly become muted.

 

But it's okay, she's okay. Beca can live without sunshine.

 

She still has music.

 

Even if it doesn't sound the same.

 

* * *

 

It's a quarter to midnight and she's curled into the corner on the right hand side of the couch when her phone goes off. She picks it up and stares, bleary-eyed, at the screen.

 

_813-555-2352_

_don't be mad_

 

And she isn't, right away, because she assumes someone has the wrong number. She sits up and rubs at her eyes, then types a response.

 

_who is this? Sure you have the right digits?_

 

_813-555-2352_

_I'm sure, Beca. But you have to promise first_

 

Her blood runs cold as her temper turns hot and she hits the touch pad harder than she needs to, hands trembling.

 

_who the fuck is this_

 

_813-555-2352_

_Stacie._

 

Beca's heart pounds against her ribs like it's trying to escape and she closes her eyes to stop the room from spinning. She's about to ask Stacie how the hell she got her number when she remembers that there's really only one way she could have.

 

_813-555-2352_

_Don't be mad at Jesse, I made him. Sort of threatened him a bit._

 

Something inside of her wants to laugh.

 

_813-555-2352_

_I'm worried about you, Bec. We all are._

 

She frowns at that, stomach roiling unpleasantly.

 

_who's all?_

 

_813-555-2352_

_Amy, CR, Jess and Ash. All of us._

 

She closes her eyes again and wills herself to keep her breathing steady. Even.

 

_813-555-2352_

_I'm coming to visit. Right before the holidays._

 

She remembers the breathing techniques that Chloe and Aubrey had taught them freshman year and suddenly can't breathe at all.

 

_813-555-2352_

_If that's cool._

 

Right. Christmas is almost here again.

 

It doesn't feel like it.

 

But then, Beca's pretty good at not noticing stuff.

 

* * *

 

There's no snow, but there are lights. They line every street in the city it seems, making darkness a thing of the past and foisting the happy glow of the season onto everyone in sight. Beca doesn't mind, they light her way home even if they seem to shine a little less brightly this year.

 

She still holds her breath as she passes the café, but it spills out from her in shaky wisps of air as she glances in through the window and sees the same decorations they'd had up the year before have made their return for the season. It looks almost exactly the same as it had that morning, when Beca had run out for breakfast and coffee and Chloe had been back at the apartment, still asleep. Waiting for her.

 

Later, once she's back at the apartment and staring mindlessly into the fridge, she wonders how something that feels so fresh can seem like a lifetime ago.

 

* * *

 

_Stacie_

_Hey, you home? Just grabbing a cab._

 

It's three in the afternoon. She's in sweats and a hoodie, and hasn't showered yet.

 

_Yeah, I’m here_

 

She's halfway through undressing in her bathroom when her phone goes off again.

 

_Stacie_

_Sweet. See you in 20._

 

She feels a little fresher after a speed shower and her hair is more presentable than it was before she went in.

 

It doesn't make her reflection any easier to look at.

 

When her buzzer sounds, a tinny echo that travels through the apartment, she's shrugging back into her hoodie and grabbing an elastic to tie her hair back as she moves the answer the door.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hey, it's me.” The voice sounds distorted through the speakers, but it is, undoubtedly, Stacie. Beca buzzes her in and paces back and forth in front of the kitchen island, chewing the skin on the side of her thumb as butterflies do the same to the inside of her stomach. She feels sick, sweaty despite being clean, and by the time there's a knock at her door she's ready to pretend she isn't home. That some phantom Beca had buzzed her in.

 

She doesn't do that though, and instead steels herself with a deep breath before she twists the door handle and pulls.

 

She freezes, every ounce of warmth to her being turning frosty as her gaze skips by Stacie and she gapes at the person standing behind her.

 

“Aubrey,” the blonde's smile is courteous, cool, and it shakes Beca into action. Her eyes snap to Stacie, who opens her mouth to speak but Beca beats her to the punch. “Stacie, what the hell?” For what it's worth, Stacie looks apologetic.

 

“Okay, look. I’m sorry I didn't tell you but-”

 

“I swore her to secrecy,” Aubrey cuts in, smooth as silk, and breezes by both of them into the apartment. Beca steps back so as not to be shoulder checked by the blonde and gestures grandly for Stacie to do the same.

 

“You **know** she's not your captain anymore, right?” Beca snaps and Stacie shrinks away towards the kitchen after stepping inside.

 

“It's nice to see some of the Bellas still have their integrity in check.” Aubrey's words pinch Beca's skin and make every inch of her feel uncomfortable. With a little more force than is necessary, Beca pushes the door closed and turns to face the pair of them, arms folded tightly over her chest.

 

“If you've just come here to berate me, then I’m sorry,” her tone is thick with stinging venom and it's clear to all present that she isn't sorry at all, “but I have better things to do.”

 

“No you don't.” Aubrey says it with a smile that's too sinister to be sweet and too even to be calm. “There is nothing,” with the first two fingers of her hand pressed to the tip of her thumb, she gestures as she speaks, walking towards Beca with eyes that are wide and warning, “ **nothing** , on this entire, imbecile-infested planet,” Beca's glower flits to Stacie, who's on the opposite side of the island from them, standing by the sink and looking frightened, “that is **better** or more important, than **this**.” Aubrey rounds on Beca, pushing the brunette back towards the living room area in a way that enrages Beca even as she's giving in to the hell-fire rolling off her one-time captain. Because this is her god damn apartment and they can't just barge in here, into her life, and start ordering her around. “So, **you** ,” Beca clenches her jaw and tries not to lash out as Aubrey's finger jabs her hard in the sternum, “are going to sit, the eff, down. And listen. For **once** in your miserable little life.”

 

“You know what?” Beca asks, dropping down onto the couch cushions and glaring up at Aubrey. “Screw you,” she spits, ignoring the way fair eyebrows rise in response. “You can't just walk in here and start treating me like crap over something you know **nothing** about.” And she actually **hears** Stacie's wince, a sharp inhalation that slices through the air, as Aubrey's spine goes ramrod straight.

 

There's an awful moment of tense silence then, one that seems to last a lifetime before Aubrey speaks again.

 

“Something I know nothing about,” she repeats, the bitter chill of winter freezing the edges of the words, making them sharp enough to be considered actual weapons, and Beca feels a very legitimate thrill of fear run through her for the first time since their arrival. Because there's an almost tangible wave of heat emanating off of Aubrey's form and Beca hasn't seen this level of anger from the blonde since her freshman year. When she speaks again, her voice is quiet and deadly. “Do you know how many times I've had to talk Chloe down?” From what, Beca doesn't know. She doesn't think it matters; the notion cuts through her regardless. “Do you have **any** idea how many times I've had to sit and hold her, for **hours** , while she cried over you?” And Beca doesn't want to hear this, she doesn't want to think about this. “Do you know how many times I've had to let myself in to her place, just to get her out of bed? Because I've lost count.” Aubrey won't stop though, and Beca can't pretend that Chloe is fine, that she's happier, if she's hearing this. But Aubrey keeps talking.

 

“ _She changed her number.” Chloe's words are thick with tears and there's a wet patch on Aubrey's leg where she's resting her head. “She wouldn't answer my calls and now she's just... gone.” Aubrey combs her fingers through red hair and wipes her fingers over a damp cheek. “I don't-” Chloe's breath hitches as a sob rips itself free from her throat and Aubrey's whole body tightens at the sound. She has to remind herself to breathe, to keep it together and stay calm; for Chloe. “I don't know what I did.” But all she wants to do is scream and yell and break things. Because she's never seen Chloe like this and she'd never **wanted** to see Chloe like this; curled into a ball on Aubrey's couch and crying so hard that it shakes her whole frame in a way that's going to actually make her muscles sore come morning. She turns her head in Aubrey's lap just enough to meet the blonde's gaze. Her eyes are blood-red and her lip trembles as she speaks. “What did I do, Bree? I thought...” her voice breaks with a gasp that catches painfully in her throat, “why doesn't she want me?” And a fresh wave of tears rolls over her. _

 

“She thinks **she** did something?” Beca didn't think it was possible, but her heart breaks a little more at the revelation and now there's assuredly nothing more than a pebble where it used to sit. A fraction of what it once was. What Chloe had once made it.

 

“Of course she does,” Aubrey snaps, all fire and fury in a way she hasn't let herself be until now, “she thinks she wasn't good enough for you.” And it tears at Beca. Kills her all over again.

 

“That's not true, though.” She sounds helpless, even to herself, and she's vaguely aware of Stacie approaching the back of the couch, something that's confirmed moments later when her hands appear in Beca's periphery.

 

“ **We** all know that,” there's so much loathing to Aubrey's tone, so much obvious contempt, and Beca can't blame her for any of it,

 

“Aubrey,” Stacie says, soft but chastising, as though this was something they'd spoken about beforehand and Aubrey continues, barely batting an eyelash.

 

“But you can't **tell** Chloe anything. She believes what she wants to believe.” She sounds almost frustrated with Chloe now and Beca knows that there's still some part of Aubrey that wishes she could run Chloe's life for her. It's the same part that wants to protect her, to keep her out of harm's way. “I’ve been telling her not to get involved with you since her **first** senior year, Beca.”

 

And that's the kicker, Beca thinks. That Chloe's maybe been waiting for this since then and Beca had been too blind to see it. That Jesse, of all people, had gotten in the way, and as much as that relationship has given her, it had still ended.

 

At least it had chance to run its course.

 

“She always believed you though.” Aubrey looms over her with a pitying glare. “Every word that came out of your mouth was golden. Don't you get that?” And Beca can't find the strength needed to turn away. “You're are the **only** person that could have done this to her,” it sounds like Aubrey hates her for that, “and you're the one person I thought maybe knew better.” Beca understands why. “You need to explain to me why you let this shit-storm blow in when every horizon for miles around you was glaring sunshine.”

 

Maybe it's because she's running on fumes, or maybe it's because Aubrey's words have hit every nerve she has left still capable of feeling. Whatever the reason, Beca **does** tell her, and when she's done explaining – the watered-down, less emotion version because she doesn't have the strength for the real deal – Stacie's hands are at her shoulders and her vision is blurry, but she can see that Aubrey's glare has withered some.

 

“You need to wake up, Beca.” Is the first thing Aubrey says to her afterwards and the lack of questions makes Beca wonder, later, if Jesse had given her a heads up about all of this. “You say you don't want to hurt her and I’m sorry, but you already have. None of us are doomed to repeat our parents' mistake. If we're lucky, they bring us up with the tools needed to avoid that.” Beca wipes at her eyes, clearing her throat as Aubrey's words prod and poke at her to sober up. “But some of us have to muddle through on our own and try our best.” And yeah, Beca realises, she's not the only one in this room with parental issues of some kind. Something must flicker behind her eyes, like a light going out, because Aubrey's eyebrows jump and she inclines her head as if to whisper. “But we can still get lucky,” she intones, and Beca's heart jumps against her ribs. “And sometimes we find people who are willing to muddle through right alongside us.” She straightens then and, with a sigh and something close to a smile, she says, “Those are the ones you need to hold onto.” She leaves Beca staring into the black abyss of her television screen with a word to Stacie about seeing her at the hotel later, and then she's gone.

 

She hears the door of her apartment click closed and feels the stark silence that she's grown so accustomed to fill the room, but now it feels like molasses. Suffocating and sticky, and she feels it drip along the back of her neck like beads of sweat.

 

She only realises she's on the verge of hyperventilating when Stacie walks around to kneel in front of her. The other woman's hands feel cold against her skin and the vibrancy of her green eyes pull Beca back from the brink of something.

 

“-here, Beca. It's okay. I'm here.” Stacie is saying it over and over, climbing up to sit beside Beca on the couch, and when she wraps an arm around hunched shoulders, Beca falls against her with a sob.

 

“I don't know what to do, Stace.”

 

Of course she doesn't, now that she realises what she's done.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Breakfast in bed?” Beca glances up from the take out container and precariously balanced disposable coffee cups she's holding in one hand while she opens the bedroom door with the other. “I could get used to this.” Chloe's skin is extra pale against the deep blue of Beca's bed sheets and her eyes flicker over every new inch exposed by the redhead's stirring. She feels a faint blush creep to her cheeks as Chloe stretches through a yawn, arms raised and bent above her head, and the covers fall to her waist. There's a purplish mark sitting proudly above Chloe's left breast and a matching one on the right side of her neck, and images from the night before flash through Beca's mind like someone's peering at them through a View-Master. “Miss Mitchell, are you blushing?” Beca looks away from where her gaze had settled – something that serves to deepen both her blush and Chloe's teasing smile – and finds Chloe leaning forward slightly, head cocked, watching her with not a little curiosity. Beca shakes her head, the leather of her jacket creaking as she reaches behind her to push the door closed, and makes her way to Chloe's side of the bed._

 

“ _No,” she breathes, drawing the vowel out in mock-exasperation and refusing to meet Chloe's eye even as she ducks her head to try and catch Beca's, “it's just hot in here.” She nudges the alarm clock out of the way with her elbow and carefully sets the styrofoam box down on the end table, plucking the coffees from the top of it and placing them beside it. As soon as they're safe, she feels fingers reaching into her jacket and twisting into the side of her white tee. With a single, solid tug, she's falling to one side and into the space between Chloe and the edge of the bed, butt hitting the mattress and making them both bounce._

 

“ _Is that so?” Chloe murmurs and for an instant Beca's caught off guard by how beautiful she looks with the early morning sunlight peaking in through the blinds above her bed. Her hair is what Beca supposes should be considered 'a mess', but looks too perfect to actually be called that, and the state it's in can't be blamed on the unconscious tossing and turning of sleep because Chloe can't have caught more than a few hours. Beca too, but she'd run a brush through hers before leaving for the café. Chloe's eyes are bright like she's gotten her full eight hours, though. Beca thinks she could look into them forever, so long as they keep looking back at her, smiling. They make her feel safe, make her feel loved. Chloe, right here, right now, makes her feel whole. Like she's been missing something from her life that has been up to now indescribable and unknown. Unable to be named._

 

_But it's Chloe._

 

_It's always been Chloe._

 

“ _Mmhmm,” Beca hums, small smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Aren't you hot?” She slides her arm beneath Chloe's and curves her hand around the redhead's ribcage, furrowing her brow to convey a sense of concern. “You look hot.” Her thumb stretches, brushes the underside of a breast and pulls a gasp from Chloe._

 

“ _You think so, huh?” Her voice has dropped to a husky whisper and she lets go of Beca's shirt in favour of grasping both necklaces hanging around her neck. With a gentle pull, Beca bows forward and lets Chloe catch her lips in a kiss that escalates almost immediately. There's a flurry of movement that sees Chloe getting to her knees and pushing Beca's jacket off her shoulders, mouth and hands hungry for more. Chloe presses closer to her, pulling at her clothes as Beca tries to help aid in the removal of them, only to end up flat on her back. And Beca laughs as they fumble, ending up with a very naked Chloe sprawled across her, who's eyes reflect the smile overtaking her face and leave Beca breathless._

 

 

_And Beca thinks she could get used to this too._

 

* * *

 

She passes carollers on the street, real live people going door to door and singing about the joys of the season from beneath woollen beanies and around knitted scarves. The joy-filled tones of 'Deck The Halls' follows her for a short ways, until she rounds the corner and the wind changes direction, carrying the voices away. Almost all of the houses and apartments here are decorated, from bright plastic candy canes that line walkways, to rows of lights strung around the banisters of the fourplexes on the opposite side of the road. It's nice, pretty, even if none of it seems 'right'.

 

She could have taken a cab, but she'd wanted the walk. Needs it to clear her head, and part of her had hoped that the chill would freeze the anxiety fluttering around inside of her, but it doesn't. She pushes her hands deeper inside her pockets and tucks her head behind the collar of her jacket until only her eyes are visible beneath the wool hat she'd pulled over her head as she'd stepped off the bus.

 

Stacie had ended up staying the night after falling asleep with Beca on the couch. They'd woken up at around two in the morning and piled into Beca's bed for a few more hours. They talked some, but spent a lot of time not saying anything at all, and Beca had appreciated that. She'd needed the silence to sort out her thoughts and Stacie had sat close and let her. It was only once they were beneath the duvet that she'd asked if Beca was mad at her, and it had taken Beca a while to answer. But ultimately, she'd said no. And she'd meant it, because 'Hurricane Aubrey' was something she'd probably needed, but she had sworn Stacie to secrecy on that.

 

She went with them to the airport to see them off and Stacie had hugged her and kissed her cheek. Aubrey had hugged her too, to Beca immense surprise, and quietly told her “I hope we see you soon” before pulling away. Then they'd left Beca standing alone in a crowd as they headed for security and their gate.

 

That had been days ago now and she'd texted Jesse before leaving the airport just to call him an asshole. He'd responded with a sad face and “i'm sry Beca <3”. There's another message from him still sitting in her inbox that reads “go home Beca” that he'd sent a few days later and she's read it probably a hundred times since receiving it.

 

She's pretty sure it had been the final catalyst, the thing that tipped her over the edge.

 

It's why she's here now. Walking unfamiliar streets and repeating a single address over and over inside her head. It's why her palms are sweating, despite the cold, and it's why she feels sick, but she's **here**. And she needs to keep reminding herself of that fact in order to make sure her legs continue moving her forward. She's here and she exists, and that's a good thing. It's a mantra that becomes louder as she makes one final turn onto her destined street. She stops and sends her gaze down the rows of duplexes that stand on both sides of the road and looks for the nearest number. It's odd, so she crosses the street and starts counting.

 

There's a little iron gate blocking the walkway to the front door and her hand fumbles the latch as she tries to get it open. Her fingers are a little numb, she'd forgotten gloves, and the metal sticks uncomfortably to her skin. Someone's spread salt on the path and she focuses on the way her shoes crunch down on the granules with every step she takes. Each one bringing her closer to her final destination, which ends up being the door at the side of the house and she stands in front of it for a long time, barely blinking.

 

There's a fear inside of her, one that's far removed from the terror of a little girl who can't block out the sounds of her parents' fighting, but is no less potent. No less gripping. It's the kind of fear that takes hold when you've resigned yourself to doing something that you had to talk yourself into doing in the first place. She's terrified. Her heart is beating a mile a minute and every second thought available to her runs through her mind, dredging up unwanted predictions of how this might go and sparing her no sympathy. She blows out a breath and watches it manifest into mist before her.

 

“ _Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this? Wanted **you**.”_

 

All she can really do is hope that, after everything, Chloe **still** wants her.

 

Well, that, and knock.

 

Part of her thinks she should have called ahead. Maybe Chloe won't be home, or maybe she saw Beca approaching and won't answer. Maybe reaches her a thousand times and every one of them vanishes the instant she hears “Just one second!” being called from beyond the bright yellow door.

 

And that's when she knows, that her heart couldn't possibly have been racing before, because what it's doing now is nothing compared to that. She can see a human-shaped blur approaching through the frosted glass and when the door handle starts to turn her stomach drops to her feet. There comes a rush of warmth as it escape the house and then there's nothing but air between them.

 

Chloe's anticipatory smile is abruptly knocked off balance by the same shock that widens her eyes and for the first time in a long while, Beca can't read the expression on her face. There's surprise, for sure, but there are myriad other things that converge in that moment and Beca thinks her chest might explode. She opens her mouth to speak but the words won't come out, and so they spend longer than they should just staring at one another in silence until Chloe's brow furrows.

 

“What are you doing here?” And it's not what Beca wants to hear, but it's something she'd expected, though the malice she'd been waiting for isn't there. She pushes her hands forward without taking them out of her pockets, gesturing to Chloe.

 

“I came to see you.” Is her weak offering and she hates that her eyes already feel wet. Every single sentence she'd conjured up and rehearsed is now nowhere to be found and even though she's panicked, she runs her tongue over her teeth and forces herself to keep going. “I should, I should have called, probably.” She nods automatically, to herself rather than to Chloe, and even though she's looking at the redhead, she isn't meeting her gaze. “I just didn't know what to say, or like, how to say it.” Sniffing, she takes one hand out of her pocket and brushes the tip of her nose with the knuckle of her index finger before slipping it back in. She bounces twice on the spot to get the blood flowing to her legs again and huffs a reproving laugh. “I still don't, actually. I thought I did and then...” she tapers off, aware that she's perilously close to rambling, and Chloe stares at her for another few seconds before blinking hard and standing aside.

 

“You should come in, it's cold out.” She accepts the invitation with minimal hesitation, stepping into Chloe's kitchen and moving to stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. Warmth reaches towards her from all sides, slipping into the same gaps that the wind had found on the way here, promising comfort and respite. Things Beca feels herself undeserving of, for the minute.

 

The final remnants of the outside chill are banished by the closing of the door and Beca notes the extra few seconds it takes Chloe to turn around once it's been firmly shut. Like she's collecting herself. And when Beca lets their eyes meet for the first time in months, she feels it – the connection, **their** connection – like a knife to the chest. But it's a retraction, the feeling of a pain being relieved rather than that of a blade being slipped between her ribs, and the relief is so sudden and intense that it rocks Beca to her core.

 

Because like some twisted version of the sword in the stone, only Chloe could pull that blade out.

 

With the wound raw and open, blood starts to spill.

 

“I fucked up, Chlo.” Her voice cracks even as she tries so hard to keep it steady and strong, lower lip trembling as she draws in a shaky breath. “Like,” and it leaves her as a wet whimper, “a lot.” She hates crying, hates it. It makes her feel dumb and out of control. But she's so, so tired and her chest aches like someone tried to punch a hole through it.

 

“Beca...” Hearing her name fall from Chloe's lips does nothing to ease any of it and Chloe's heart always breaks clean and clearest across her face. The mess and rubble behind her chest is hidden away, but the sorrow paints itself across her features. Reveals itself in the cracks of her expression as it crumbles.

 

Beca presses the back of her hand to her mouth, holding back any pitiful cries as she breaths in through her nose and reaches behind her for something steady. Her hand finds the edge of the kitchen counter and she grips it tightly, stumbling back until she's leaning against it. Chloe steps towards her, reaches out, and though it kills Beca to do it she motions for her to stop, to wait. Chloe halts and blinks sad eyes a few times before pulling her arms back and wrapping them around herself. She looks so vulnerable, Beca thinks, as her glassy eyes wander over the other woman. Wearing a deep red turtleneck and a pair of dressy sweatpants, even dressed for comfort Chloe looks amazing. Her hair is a little longer, or maybe it's just the way she's wearing it, and her curls fall about her face in the same way they had when she and Beca first met.

 

So much has happened since then, she thinks, and there's so much she wants to say, needs to say, right now that it's overwhelming. But bad moods at the Bella house had led to Chloe gleaning enough bits and pieces of Beca's broken childhood to put together the puzzle pieces of whatever was bothering her on any given day – a certain holiday, a fight with Jesse, an impending visit to one of her parent's homes – and so she knows a lot about what makes Beca tick and twitch. More than most.

 

“Aubrey told me she came to see you,” Chloe hedges carefully, as though Beca might dart if she talks too loud and Beca drops her hand from her mouth, clearing her throat.

 

“What else did she tell you?” There's no spitefulness to the question, she wants to know, and Chloe's silence is all the answer she needs. Tipping her head back, she exhales noisily and blinks back the glassy haze to her vision. “Nothing you didn't already know though, right?”

 

“I didn't know that was why,” is Chloe's clipped, quick reply, but by the time Beca is looking at her again any anger that had been present has fled. “You could have...” she pulls a hand free from where it's tucked beneath an elbow, gesturing to the space between them, “you could have told me. Talked to me.”

 

“How?” Beca's laugh is hollow. “How? When I couldn't even talk to **myself** about it.” It's a hurdle of self-reproval that she isn't sure she'll ever be able to jump. She just keeps skinning her knees every time she tries. “I couldn't do anything but, but push it all away. I couldn't **deal**. I couldn't-” Feeling her throat start to tighten, Beca stops herself but doesn't look away. Chloe's nose is turning red, a sure sign that she's about to lose the battle with her tear ducts, and Beca's almost certain she isn't ready for that. That it might break her, right here in Chloe's kitchen.

 

“Then why are you here? Why now?” Her voice wavers uncertainly over each word and she isn't angry but there's something there, bubbling beneath the surface. Beca's knuckles turn white as she clenches granite and bites down on the inside of her cheek. The pain grounds her, brings her back from the brink, but even then what she says comes out sloppy and thick.

 

“Because I'm scared.” And she watches Chloe's expression crumble all over again. “I want to be here. I want to,” she pauses to sniff and takes the moment to glance away, “I want to be with **you** , I never **stopped** wanting that.” When she looks back, Chloe's lips are pursed and she's swallowing hard, a single tear-track being joined by a second on the opposite cheek. “I'm just so scared, Chlo. I hate it, but I am.” The redness from Chloe's nose has spread to her cheeks and she swings her arms out at her sides, gesturing helplessly as though to indicate that there's nothing within either of their vicinities to be afraid of.

 

“Of what, Beca?” It's just the two of them. No barriers to separate them but the ones Beca creates.

 

“I'm scared that the day we have our first big fight will be the beginning of the end.” Because she remembers the yelling, distant shouts now that carry over the gaping void of time and still manage to reach her on the other side. “I'm scared that somewhere along the way you'll stop loving me, and start putting up with me instead.” Her breath catches and she hiccups her way gracelessly into her next sentence. “I'm scared I'll do something to make you hate me or resent me. That I’ll break you, somehow.” The tears pooling in steely-blue eyes turn her smile into a watery, bitter mess and she can hardly see Chloe now. “Guess I already did that, though.” And Chloe is all at once unable to take the distance any longer. In two long strides, she's standing in front of Beca, features more defined in Beca's eyes now they're close. She can smell Chloe now; it's the same scent she hadn't been able to get out of her sheets, the same one that had drifted through her dreams in the empty months between their last encounter.

 

Chloe doesn't deny it. Doesn't try to sugar-coat things, for once, because they both know what the truth is. Beca's hurt her in a way Chloe never thought she would and every second spent not explaining why Beca had done what she did **has** broken her, in so many different ways. And Beca hates herself for that.

 

“Hey,” Chloe's hands find Beca's shoulders and it's crazy, how Beca's body feels like it finally relaxes after being tense for an eternity, “cuts and bruises can be mended. You can help fix them, you've always been able to do that.” She moves her hands to cup Beca's face and looks so deeply into her eyes that Beca's sure it touches something inside of her. “We fix each other, Bec. We make each other better.” Like striking a chain, something is freed. Beca lifts her hands, curling her fingers around Chloe's wrists and holding tightly as she closes her eyes. Twin tears fall and Chloe catches them, brushes them away with the pads of her thumbs.

 

“I'm so scared we'll turn into **them** ,” Beca's whisper is anguished and desperate. If it were anyone else in front of her, she'd be mortified at them seeing her like this. “And I love you so, so much, Chloe.” But it isn't anyone else, it's Chloe. It's Chloe's hands at her face, tilting her head up, and it's Chloe's lips that find hers in a kiss so bright and blinding that it burns. Again and again, Beca feels herself drawn out of her body with each one, altered in a way that is indefinable before being put back together, and when Chloe eases back to press her forehead to Beca's, the emptiness that's haunted her is gone.

 

And she feels something close to whole again.

 

“We won't,” Chloe promises. “We're stronger than that.” And Beca thinks maybe she can believe her.

 

“Go home” Jesse had said, and Beca had listened.

 

Because 'home' for Beca has never been a place.

 

It's a person.


End file.
